


Good to Know

by scratchedandinked



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Accepting Martin!, Canon Asexual Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Full Consent in all Situations, Happy ending don't worry i will not let Jon Stay Sad, Internalized Acephobia, M/M, Sex-Neutral Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, VERY very vague passages about Jon having sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29857662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scratchedandinked/pseuds/scratchedandinked
Summary: "In some short-lived mistake, somewhere between Georgie and Martin, Jon had tried to be… what he thought was a “normal person”. It was a futile attempt, as he later found, because the way he simply existed was, by all means, actually normal. It was just that back then he associated “normal” with “uncomfortable”. The year that followed his breakup with Georgie, the entry into life as he knew it—the one he grew into and with—Jon spent in an array of discomfort."[Jon struggles through layers of Acephobia to tell Martin he's Ace and is met with a positive response... that he just can't seem to wrap his head around]
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 135





	Good to Know

**Author's Note:**

> hey all! this fic is based on my own experiences with my internalized acephobia-- plus the sweet comfort of a the most loving partner, martin (not a real experience, unfortunately)
> 
> All brief references to sex/having sex are at the beginning. I put a "~" paragraph break after the mentions are finished. (If I miss anything to be noted, please let me know xo)

In some short-lived mistake, somewhere between Georgie and Martin, Jon had tried to be… what he thought was a “normal person”. It was a futile attempt, as he later found, because the way he simply existed was, by all means, _actually normal_. It was just that back then he associated “normal” with “uncomfortable”. The year that followed his breakup with Georgie, the entry into life as he knew it—the one he grew into and with—Jon spent in an array of discomfort. One of which mostly happened lying down.

He’d always stare up at the ceiling when it was happening. Pretty unamused, pretty unpleased, but not entirely wanting it to stop. He felt bored. But that was generally how things were with this partner, so maybe this was supposed to feel the same way. The partner never noticed Jon was never fully interactive, only ever muttering their name in return to when they would say his. It was a poor conversation—Jon thinking it was because _he_ was the poor conversationalist in the relationship, and not that their intimacy was in a language Jon had no intentions of ever speaking, and should not force his tongue to learn.

One time, Jon recalled the name of every teacher he’d had since he was five. He was so focused, when his partner flopped down beside him on the bed, laughing and kissing his cheek, Jon was embarrassed he had gotten so distracted. Oh, how humiliating. Oh, how _terrible_. Jon felt guilty for weeks, which ended with him speaking the foreign tongue, words sliding like oil over his tongue and dripping down his chin like poison. He didn’t know if it was supposed to burn, supposed to ache, supposed to make him feel so light and distant.

**~**

Jon learned, years later, that _no_ it was _not_.

Telling Martin that he didn’t speak the language was embarrassing in its own right, but mostly because Martin had a minimal reaction. He blinked, nodded, smiled, _agreed_ to the request to never speak it in their apartment—in their bed.

Later, as Martin slept—having rolled over and now beginning to snore—Jon wept. He pressed the heels of his wrists against his eyes and wept silently. Nothing was being asked of him, and there was nothing to defend or excuse, but Jon still felt like a disappointment. It was _too easy_ to get everything he needed; everything before now felt like wasted time.

“Jon?” Martin said after a small hiccup escaped Jon. He was shivering in bed. “Jon, are you upset? Did you have another nightmare?”

“N-No. No, I’m alright, Martin. I’m alright.” Jon muttered, wiping his nose. _What a child, what a **child**._

Martin’s hand rested on his waist, as it always did when they spoke in bed. “What’s going on? D-Did you See something? Is everyone okay? Should I grab our bags?”

“Martin, please stop guessing.” Jon said shortly. Martin was entirely too attentive. He would land on an answer, but it would be framed as being his _own_ fault, rather than rightfully Jon’s. “I’m fine.”

“Okay.” Martin pulled his hand away sharply. Jon had said beyond his words.

In lying, Jon suddenly realized that he was speaking a language that also had no business being in their bed.

“You didn’t ask me why.” Jon muttered after a moment. “You didn’t ask me why I _won’t_ … Why I _can’t_ seem to… You didn’t ask what was wrong with me. Didn’t even ask if something had happened to me or anything of the sort.” Jon sat up in bed. His hair fell over his shoulders and brushed over his cheeks. He resisted tucking it behind his ear and looking bashful.

“What? Did you want me to ask you—to _offend_ you?” Martin sat up as well, pushing the blanket around his shoulders back onto his pillow. “I mean, I see any follow up questions as just a bit… _invasive_ , don’t you?”

Jon paused. “That’s all that’s ever been said to me.”

“You said no. That’s a pretty full explanation.” Martin said. If Jon wasn’t so sensitive to the shift in tone, he wouldn’t have noticed Martin’s twist into anger, although it wasn’t directed at him. “I don’t see any reason to push the subject.”

“Part of me wants you to be disappointed with me.” Jon muttered. “That’s how people show that they care about me. That they’re missing out on expressing _their_ love language or—or whatever.”

“Not to be crude,” Martin huffed. “But if someone’s acts of service love language extends to getting someone off but not doing their laundry, they’re just a bit shit, Jon.”

“You’re just trying to…” Jon wasn’t sure what. “You don’t have to defend me—or demonize them. They had their lives and things they wanted. They just wanted to… be close to me and I pushed them away. I pushed them all away.”

Martin placed his hand on Jon’s knee, fingers making more contact with the threads of their blanket than the body underneath. “I think I’m pretty close to you right now, don’t you?”

“Yes. You are.” Jon was glad for it too; his glasses were still on the night table.

“And I see no issue with it, as is. You aren’t an experience, Jon. You _are_ a person.”

“I am a person.” Jon was trying to say it angrily—like Martin of all people didn’t have to tell him—but he spoke the words with a betraying softness. They were new in his mouth. Foreign and malleable on his tongue. Sticky on his teeth. Sweet to taste, if Jon was being shamefully honest. “I’m just a person.”

“And I love that person.” Martin said. “No caveats.”

Jon still felt like weeping, but suddenly in an absence of. Something— _everything_ —slipped from his shoulders and disappeared into the dim room around them. He was taking the first easy breath allowed to him in a long time. It wouldn’t last forever—life would round its way back to him, slowly piling up before he ever noticed the ache again—but a moment was enough. Hell, it was fantastic to simply notice the relief as it was happening, rather than when he missed it. Jon was able to look at Martin and feel utterly human, down to the most basic fault: hope.

The future—the one that kept flickering in front of them—seemed so vast, but full. It was a chance to do absolutely anything, even if it was just _feel like this_. Jon would live a thousand more days and be able to have moments this simple and this content with his Martin, no special request or holiday. It could just be his life. The most painful moments of Jon’s life had been long but suffering always had to end. And Jon may have found the end of the tangled knot around him. Martin told him the words—had him repeat the words—that showed Jon how to pull on the ends and unravel it.

“I love you, Martin.” Jon tucked his hair back and used the motion to wipe his cheeks subtly. “Thank you. For listening to me.”

“Why don’t you go back to sleep, love?” Martin refused the gratitude; it was base-line behavior to care about Jon. Not an obligation but a deeper desire to simply love and make _loving_ the action of his day, every day.

“I’m sorry if I woke you.” Jon said.

“Don’t be, I knew something was on your mind—I was waiting.” Martin shrugged. “I can know some things too, alright?”

“Was it dinner?” Jon muttered, suddenly ashamed. He had been dragging his guilt for hours.

“It _was_ dinner.” Martin was cheerful despite the admission. He laid back down and poked Jon’s side gently, trying to convince him to do the same. “You barely touched your food, barely even corrected my _purposefully_ incorrect pasta facts.”

“Is that why I kept thinking about the average width of a piece of linguini?” Jon groaned, rubbing his eyes. “ _It’s 4 millimeters_ —Oh, thank _God_ that’s gone now.”

“You weren’t yourself, Jon.” Martin said, his sincerity growing as his volume did the opposite. “You can always talk to me, you know that, right? You don’t have to wait until you can’t hold it in any longer. I’ll listen to you any time.”

Not then, Jon had thought, not at _dinner_. Not after Jon had started their salads with a calculated and _almost_ cold:

 _Listen, uh, I’m asexual, Martin—can you pass me the serving spoon? Oh, thank you_.

Martin was stunned, sure, but mostly out of unpreparedness. He nodded, accepting it at face-value, but searching for that perfect uplifting one-liner to make Jon know that he was _okay_ okay with it. The sentence never came and Martin simply said:

_Okay! Great! Very good to know—did you want an onion for your salad or no?_

“Good to know” was Jon’s worst fear. Just _good to know._ To _have_. To consider in due time. Most men and women would _know_ and then call Jon a few days later to cancel their previously made date. It _was good to know_ in terms of protection and self-preservation. Except in Jon’s case. _Good to know_ was never a safety measure for Jon at all. He was always the one getting hurt.

Jon couldn’t have brought up then, poking their starter salad and losing track of how many fake bites he’d taken, how many people had _never_ been that nonchalant without _not_ really meaning it. But Jon knew Martin meant it, Jon just didn’t know what to do or say. He only knew how people laughed at him, as if he’d plotted the best punch line thirty-years running. How they scrunched their noses like the word was too clinical for dinner conversation. How some said it was none of their business what he was if _they_ were together.

Jon only knew how to deal with the inward anger adopted from the outside, rather than any compliment or acceptance, and that terrified and sadden some bone-deep part of Jon he’d lost touch with.

“Dinner was lovely, I’m sorry I was distracted.” Jon said, easing back onto his pillow. “I’m just not used to people knowing what I mean when I tell them—and know without having run into the boundaries themselves. If you were angry, I could at least put a new boundary up and have you come _bounding_ into it. Rather than having you fumble your way into the other ones… sometimes going right through the wall.”

“That… That didn’t make any sense, Jon.”

“What I’m saying is,” Jon said, far more sternly than he has intended. He sighed and let his shoulders collapse inward. His voice didn’t have the space to be bigger than a whisper. “I’m just not used to people being kind.”

“Oh, _Jon_.”

Martin’s hand returned to Jon’s waist, sliding over his hips and up his back. He pressed forward lightly, asking Jon if he would like the full, near-smothering embrace. Jon let his body expand enough to capture one more, quiet laugh. He nodded and inched his way forward into Martin.

As both of Martin’s arms curled around him, Jon let himself float in the emptiness, the _relief_. Jon would never be asked to speak a language that atrophied his tongue or curdled his saliva. Never be in a position to be passive to the point of forgetfulness. Never think to find “normal” again. There, in the warm comfort of love and patience, Jon had never felt more accepted—and acceptable.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! writing ace pieces for jon really is a cathartic joy for me-- anything to say or suggest, find me [@asheardontape](https://asheardontape.tumblr.com/) on tumblr x


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